Page 5 of 3rd Tango
“Who’s the woman?”
“His girlfriend.”
Charlie meets Mom’s eye. “You know this for sure?”
“Well, she’s there a lot and spends the night. I think she’s living there. Until five months ago, I’d never seen her before. Unless it’s his long-lost sister, I’m going with girlfriend. I think she’s an artist.”
This little detail interests me. “What makes you think that?”
Half-rising, Mom rifles through the stack, withdrawing one halfway down.
She holds it up. “Garage sale last month. I wandered over there.”
Charlie’s mouth drops open. “Mom, seriously? You’re convinced he’s a murderer and you walked over there? You just told us he threatened you all those years ago. Where was Dad?”
“He was putting the shed together. He doesn’t know I went.”
My sister leans forward, looking straight at me. “Am I the only one that thinks it’s a little wacky she did that?”
I wave a hand over the documents laid before us. The whole damn thing is firmly entrenched in Screwyville. Why should snooping in a suspected serial killer’s household items be a problem?
“Right,” Charlie says, obviously understanding my point. “What was there?”
“Nothing special. Lamps, dishes, the normal stuff.”
“No bloody axes?”
Mom, clearly unhappy with my humor, pins me with a look. “Hardy, har, smarty pants. If you’re not going to take this seriously, I’ll find someone else. I’ve worked hard and you’re…minimizing…it. I don’t appreciate that, Megan.”
The use of my given name indicates her distaste. Shame burns my throat. No matter how off-base I think this whole thing is, she’s a smart woman who believes our neighbor is a murderer. For that alone, I need to respect what she’s accomplished.
I hold up my hands. “I’m sorry. You’re right.”
I take the folder, set it on the table and flip it open. More hyper-detailed notes of Gayle and the woman’s activities and a full inventory—with photos—of their garage sale items.
At this point, I don’t know what to hope for. If he winds up being just a quirky neighbor, my mother will have spent what equates to years of her life surveilling him. All that time. Lost.
She will, in short, be devastated if a serial killer doesn’t live across the street.
How the hell did we get here?
Sighing, I skim the list of catalogued items. Midway down I pause.
“Art supplies?”
“I knew you’d like that,” Mom says. “She had brushes, canvasses, graphite pencils, the works. There was a nice easel I thought you might like, but I refrained.”
Now my mother is pushing it and the urge to wisecrack terrorizes me.
No, no, no. Nope. Not doing it.
I gnaw on my lip. Later, I’ll tell Charlie I want serious bonus points for not cracking a joke about our mom buying art supplies from a murderer.
I flip to the next page where a flyer announces a neighboring town’s upcoming festival.
“What’s this?”
Mom taps her finger against it. “I picked it up from the table with all the art supplies. I didn’t ask, but I heard his girlfriend tell one of their customers she’ll have a booth. I’m assuming she’ll be selling her art. If that’s what she wants to call it.” Mom shudders. “She’s no match for my Meg, that’s for sure.”
